


The Pensieve

by temptedmelibea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Byronic Heroes & Heroines, Dark, Dark Character, Dark Magic, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fantasy, Parallel Universes, Pensieves, Strong Female Characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-16 06:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3478430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temptedmelibea/pseuds/temptedmelibea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So I should call you Hermione Jean," she heard Harry say, pointing at one of the Hermiones and looking very confused, "and, Hermione, I call you Hermione? And Hermione Jean is you but from Voldemort's time, and she is his friend?"</p>
<p>"Classmates," Hermione Jean quickly corrected.</p>
<p>"Partners," Riddle re-corrected. Hermione Jean looked aggravated. Hermione looked sick. Harry's face hardened. "In the non-romantic sense," Riddle explained. "Although she's clearly attracted to me."</p>
<p>Hermione Jean scoffed.</p>
<p>*An Alternate Universes story.*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I will only say this once: Me no JK Rowling.

Title: The Pensieve

Chapter 1

* * *

The halls were nearly empty except for the two students bickering in the dark.

Hermione Granger and Tom Riddle were Head Girl and Head Boy respectively. One was a Gryffindor; the other, a Slytherin. The fact that they had to work together didn't mean they could like themselves any less.

"All I'm saying is, you had no right to threaten that poor first year. He was  _lost_ , Riddle. You're always so… But of course I forget who I'm talking to."

"It doesn't matter whether he was lost or stupid, Granger. May I remind you what our nightly tasks are about? Keep the students out of the corridors, make sure no mischief occurs…"

"…and no one is allowed out after ten. Yes, I know, and nowhere does it  _say_ scare the beejeezus out of them, you emotionally illiterate snake!"

They stopped at the stairs, and the tall Slytherin rewarded Hermione Granger's indignation with a raised brow and what was beginning to become a slightly exasperated glare. "Don't try my patience. We all know I could have sent that student to the Headmaster or the Caretaker and he would have gotten severely punished. The fact that I insinuated—"

"You downright guaranteed him an expulsion!" his companion protested angrily.

"— _Insinuated_ a great punishment for his misbehavior does not mean I wasn't doing him a great favor. We won't be seeing  _that_ student lost at night again, I assure you."

Hermione huffed. How a domineering megalomaniac such as Tom Riddle could have been given any position of power escaped her. But of course, he had always been a favorite. The Slytherin's insane, bigoted and sadistic tendencies escaped the notice of any teacher he charmed. Even Headmaster Dippet had been blinded by the charismatic git. It was lucky she was there to protect the students, even if the task had become nearly insufferable. There was no point reasoning with Riddle.

" _I'm_ the Head Girl and I'm telling you not to do it again! Respect me for once, Tom. Whether you like it or not,  _I am your equal_."

The dark-haired seventh-year smirked. He knew just the way to annoy the source of constant nagging that was known as Hermione Granger, and it was needless to say he secretly enjoyed it. "Well, I'm Head  _Boy_ , Granger. Whether you like it or not, I am above you as a man—"

"You chauvinistic git!" an indignated Hermione seethed, repulsed, but of course he ignored her.

"—and as a student," he went on. "Don't delude yourself, Granger. You know full well I am the better wizard. Anyway, we're here."

That last statement shut any of Hermione's complaints as she looked at the door in front of her. Tom Riddle smirked to himself as Hermione's pride could not contain the wonder in her expression. "That door wasn't here before."

"It is a magic door, Granger," Riddle replied lazily. "And it answers only to me. Shall we enter, now?"

"This isn't a trick, is it? How could a door only answer to you? You can't be  _that_  full of yourself to actually think… And the mere thought of a room filled with—"

"With magic items, yes. I know to your narrow mudblood mind it sounds incredible, but then again: you probably thought magic was incredible at some time, did you not? Your filthy background… And to think that I am allowing you to assist me despite your many limitations. But alas I need another mind, Granger, and unfortunately yours is the only mind I can trust at the moment. And I _can_  trust it, can't I?"

" _Sod off_ ," she hissed her disdain for him with every letter. The Head Boy chuckled.

"I know I can. You know why? You cannot pass this up, and unfortunately for you, I know it. And I know that if I demand your most absolute secrecy and loyalty in exchange for knowledge... and the information that I could just as easily learn on my own leaving your chances of graduating at the top in the dust… Your feeble witch's mind won't be able to resist, nor will your silly Gryffindor heart be able to betray me. So shall I close the door on you, Granger, or will you join me?"

"I cannot stand you," Hermione frowned. "But I'll do it. Only to gain knowledge."

"Good," Riddle said, and after a flick of his wand, the door opened.

The room was filled with piles and piles of many things: lost books, old shoes, even discarded bottles of butterbeer. Every once in a while, Hermione would look, and she would catch a glimpse of something wonderful. There was a broken Vanishing Cabinet, an old book on Ancient Runes, and she even thought she saw out of the corner of her eye an old copy of  _Hogwarts, A History_ written in Latin. She could not believe she had never noticed this place. Even more unbelievable was the fact that Tom Riddle had lead her there. What could he possibly be plotting?

"So where is it," Hermione said, feigning impatience with the young man whose sole mission in life had appeared to be, for the past year, to make her life miserable.

Tom Riddle knew what Hermione was trying to hide either way. "I knew you would like this place. You're welcome."

Hermione blushed. It was not because of a sudden bout of shyness. "Where is it, Riddle, I know this is going to cost me."

"The honor of joining me in my task? You are quite right, it will cost you dearly. The Pensieve is a few feet away. It is hidden, however. First, I need your word."

Granger looked at him suspiciously. "My word?"

"I do not like you, Granger, any less than you do not like me, but there are some qualities in you that I respect. They are quite useful to me.  _You_ can be useful. You are not stupid, like the rest, you are dedicated… And above all, you can keep your word. I need you to promise me that whatever happens in this room, you will not tell a soul. Break this promise and I will  _not_ be responsible for the  _grave_  consequences. Am I understood?"

"And what do I get in return?"

Tom Riddle smiled. "The privilege of entering this room whenever you wish, having access to all of this room but the pensieve. This, as long as you tell me of  _anything_  you've found. Anything. I want full access to the knowledge you can gain here in my absence, and full devotion to me during the time we spend together in this place. I am not asking for much, considering all that can be obtained here. And above all consider that I haven't mentioned this place  _to a single soul_. The fact that I trust you with this— _you_ , above all—"he trailed off, then quickly regained himself. "But it is not necessary to remind you of what I think of your kind for you to appreciate this as the highest honor."

Hermione frowned. She was accustomed to his usual venom. But, underneath all those insults, it seemed almost like Tom Riddle was trying to flatter her. The action was so unusual in him that it sent all kinds of warning bells in the back of her mind. "You have my word," she promised, though hesitantly. She cursed her curious mind.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, Hermione was cranky. Neither she nor Tom had slept. They had sneaked out of the Magic Room a little before sunrise. Hermione, a nervous wreck—for even the Head Boy and Girl were only supposed to be allowed out of their dorms until their corridor patrol was finished at around 11 PM. Yet Tom Riddle, the smug bastard, had strolled to the Slytherin dungeons with relative ease. It was obvious he had misbehaved before.

At sunrise, unable to sleep, Hermione grimaced at her tired face before quickly brushing her bushy hair. She mentally wondered why she even bothered. No matter what she did, she would never be pretty like Willow or Edwina, or any of the other girls she shared her dorm with. Tom Riddle, on the other hand, was devastatingly handsome—

Hermione blushed.

The fact that  _he_ had suddenly come up in her mind was nothing to be happy about. Hermione kicked herself for casting him in a favorable light, superficial as it was. True, Riddle was handsome, if some other girls were to be believed, but Hermione knew better. He was an insufferable, narcissistic bigot with a nasty condescending attitude and a penchant for intimidation. She wouldn't be surprised if she ended up being as evil a wizard as Grindelwald.

But he did have some redeeming characteristics. Hermione smiled as she remembered her last few hours stuck with him. They were studying the Pensieve Tom had found, the first one she'd seen up close in her lifetime. Riddle taught her how it was used and told her all about the one in Headmaster Dippet's office, how he'd seen him place a memory once, what it looked like when someone used it—it was all fascinating to her. Then they started pointing out interesting characteristics and throwing ideas about how it worked. Tom was especially interested in other possible uses and Hermione, she wanted to know everything. Tom had been wonderful, she had  _never_ had such a profoundly intellectual conversation with another person before and—

And she just wished Tom didn't have to be such a horrible human being, when he had such a brilliant mind.

The excitement Hermione got from remembering the Pensive was quickly deflated when she remembered whom she was thinking so highly of. Tom Riddle was not her friend, not that Hermione the bookworm ever had any friends. After seven years at Hogwarts, the closest thing to friendship she had found was with the teachers and the students she would offer to tutor. And Tom, who was so blatantly prejudiced, who was so openly disdainful of everyone and anyone he considered to be beneath him, who frequently scorned her just for her muggle-born blood,  _he_ was surrounded by people who loved and admired him, succumbing to his superficial charm. The world wasn't fair. Hermione hated Tom Riddle for it.

The Gryffindor Head Girl got dressed, took her book bag and went to the Great Hall for breakfast. The seats were mostly empty due to the early hour and, to be honest, Hermione liked it that way. It had always been uncomfortable to sit in crowds, painfully aware of how she was left ignored with her books while others engaged in friendly conversation. No, no, she told herself. It was much better to catch up on her Defense Against the Dark Arts homework if she wanted to get the best grades on their next test. Oh, but it was so difficult to concentrate while sharing a class with the Slytherins! And Hermione had never been as good with Defense as Riddle was.

Speak of the Devil, she thought, as Tom Riddle entered the Great Hall. He was early to breakfast and without his cronies for once. Hermione nibbled on a piece of toast as she pretended not to notice him sitting down at the Slytherin table and serving himself some toast and tea. Tom Riddle, on the other hand, did not have to pretend his detachment. She saw him take out a quill from his bag as well as a piece of parchment and busily scribble in it. Hermione wondered what he could be writing about before remembering her own Defense homework.

"Good morning, Hermione!" the cheery voice of Melvin Abbott, a second-year Gryffindor she had once tutored, greeted the witch. Hermione glanced up from her books and parchment and gave the boy a half-smile and a quick "Oh, good morning Melvin! How are you?"

"Couldn't be better! I'm doing very well in Transfiguration now, thanks to you," the little boy beamed proudly. Hermione smiled politely as the back of her mind wondered what Riddle could be  _doing_.

"Oh, you're busy, right?" Melvin blushed, looking at her books and parchment sprawled rather freely all over the almost empty dining table. "Heh… Sorry. I know how you are with your classes. Can't beat the great Hermione Granger!" he joked, beaming his approval and grabbing a few muffins. "I was really here for breakfast on the go, actually. We're going to play an early match of Quidditch and—oh! Yeah! Your studies! Sorry! I've gotta run now—Good luck, Hermione! Gryffindor is bound to get the House Cup this year!" And with that last cheerleader-esque bout of encouragement, he left.

Hermione was left wondering if she should have encouraged him to stay.

No, but he was busy, she reasoned. He was just being polite. She just wished they all wouldn't treat her like she belonged to a different species who subsisted only on books. Even though she  _did_ , in fact, subsist almost only on books, and knowledge.

Once again, she glanced at Riddle only to see him deeper into his parchment, his brow furrowed in concentration. She briefly wondered what brilliant thing he could be thinking, it was marvelous to watch.

A fleeting thought passed through her mind and she contemplated the vague possibility of someday getting into his mind.

* * *

Independent study was a privilege assigned to those seventh year students who were deemed to be considerably ahead in their own classes and therefore capable of independent research. Most years, the only students considered capable of independent research had been the Head students. Sadly, this year was no exception.

Hermione inconspicuously glared at the boy sitting across from her. Tom Riddle's incessant note-writing was getting on her nerves. It was needless to say that, since September, the small confined section of the library they shared had become the place of biggest torment. They signed into the hidden room, spent three hours together Fridays through Sundays, and then signed out. In exchange for this, they got extra credit, several valuable letters of recommendation and the most valuable resource either of them could ask for: unrestricted access to the Restricted Section of the library.

Tom Riddle, of course, also had an added benefit to all this: a chance to further aggravate Hermione in what could only be a twisted plot to cause her cardiac rupture.

Yet today he had been strangely quiet. No thinly-veiled insults to her intelligence, no comments about her alleged low birth,  _nothing_. It was almost as if she didn't exist. Hermione found she would have quite enjoyed the silence, had she been able to concentrate at all on her own essay,  _On the benefits of the liberation of House Elves_ ("a rather boring, unimaginative title," Riddle had professed, after snatching her notes but a week ago).

She found herself staring, but she couldn't help it. Where Hermione's own writing was hesitant, full of double checking and bibliographical annotations, Tom Riddle's writing was more dignified, fluid. She hated to be forced to wonder what on Earth he could be writing about, having never been able to see Hogwart's current Head Boy so dedicatedly poring over a subject. His focus was so intense; it was like she wasn't in this room at all. She caught a glimpse of his writing—runes.

Of course he would be writing in runes. So bloody brilliant, that could practically be his code language. A nasty pang of envy reached her as she once again became aware of the fluidity of his actions, how naturally it all came to him. Yes, Hermione Granger also excelled in the study of Ancient Runes; but where her rune writing came with excruciating headaches and as well as occasional trips to a dictionary for translations, Tom freaking Riddle was already using runes as a way to keep whatever it was he was writing from—from who?

Probably from her, most likely.

Hermione's lips pursed at the implications of the act. It was no secret she had exceeded at every class; Runes was not an exception. The fact that Riddle thought he could get away with writing in runes to keep information from  _her_ was not only insulting, it was so preposterous she wondered who he thought he was dealing with at all.

She read again, and even upside-down she was able to make out the words mirror, gate, and—

"If you think I will allow you to steal my ideas," Tom Riddle said suddenly, causing Hermione to jump and redden visibly, "you are sadly mistaken. We are partners now, are we not? All will be learned in due time."

"I'm sorry—partners?" she questioned him in disbelief. Dark patronizing eyes raised up to meet her own.

"We swore an allegiance last night," his tone didn't ask, it declared. "You serve me and I give you what you want the most. Lord Voldemort is generous."

"Who?" her head was spinning, this was entirely bizarre.

"Me," Riddle said simply as he got up from his seat in one smooth movement, a tiny smirk forming in his handsome features. His attitude exuded a complete authority as he looked down at her. Hermione would have snorted had she not been talking to someone who was not only a complete megalomaniac, but had the power and aptitude to back it up. "Tom Marvolo Riddle. I am Lord Voldemort. It's an amusing anagram, don't you think? Flight from death."

"It sounds like a bad precautionary tale," Hermione muttered. It did not seem to bother Riddle in the least.

"Look, I don't want to be your partner," the witch continued, already feeling a migraine coming on due to sheer Riddle exposure. "I don't even want to be in the same room as you. You're malicious, selfish, bigoted… Can't you just say we're working on a… a mutual project? After all, what would all your little cronies think?"

Tom smiled. "Our agreement stays between us. You know I need you, Hermione."

 _Whoa_.  _Whoa_. Was Tom Riddle flashing  _her_  his pearly whites? She suddenly felt her inadequacy, and it stung. "Are you trying to charm me? Don't you think I've seen you at the Slug Club enough?"

He chuckled just as she'd seen him chuckle a hundred times before: it was measured, rehearsed and completely charming. Then his eyes darkened, and a surprisingly warm hand forcefully grabbed hers, pinning it to their desk.

"Listen to me, Hermione Granger. One of these days, you will learn not to question or disrespect me; but until that day comes I am perfectly willing to settle for your most absolute obedience in this particular subject. And you  _did_ swear obedience."

"Riddle, let go," Hermione ordered, though the authority she tried to convey on her voice somewhat faltered as she tried to free her hand. She wasn't comfortable touching him like this—the thought that such a disgusting bigot was currently holding her hand repulsed her.

Almost as if he sensed her discomfort, Riddle leaned down, his face edging closer to hers. She could practically feel his breath on her skin as cold, hard eyes stared defiantly at hers and she could have sworn the sudden contempt she saw in him was reacting to something deep within her soul.

"Don't fight me, Granger," he said softly, casually. "Pretty soon, you'll find I'm not as bad as you think I am. We're both remarkably alike, after all."

"Please let go of me, Riddle," she whispered, defeated. There was no point in confronting Tom Riddle, the man who had even Hogwarts' headmaster in the palm of his hand. He was so stubborn, he'd probably hold on to her until hell froze over if she tried to agitate him further. And besides, she  _had_  promised. And it wasn't like what he was asking for was completely abhorrent—she suddenly remembered the room filled with magical trinkets, old books and the pensieve.

"I expect to see you tonight at the Room of Requirement, immediately after our patrol," he informed her.

"We'll study the pensieve?" In her Gryffindor pride, Hermione hoped this sounded more like a condition she placed and not an agreement. Tom smirked.

"I'll tell you all there is to know about creating one," he promised, like a man promising Santa Claus. With an absentminded stroke of approval, he let go of her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reviewer at another website wondered about this story, so I will keep my answer to them here: I am trying, to the best of my ability, to keep all book characters as in-character as possible while remaining flexible enough to their circumstances. Please keep in mind that the only thing that changed in this universe is the fact that Hermione was born in Tom Riddle's time (born Dec. 1929). Yet this means she has spent her entire Hogwarts years without a Harry or a Ron, and with a competitor such as Tom Riddle to boot, which is entirely unfortunate for her but maybe a redeeming opportunity for Riddle. When I picture this Hermione I see her closer to how I saw her in the first book and quite different to how she ended up in th Harry Potter novels. Tom Riddle has retained all his nasty qualities, as you may see (although he does exaggerate the chauvinism in order to annoy Hermione Granger).


	3. Chapter 3

The wait for Tom Riddle to arrive for patrol felt like forever to Hermione Granger. The actual patrol, however, felt even more endless.

Tom Riddle took great pleasure in patrolling every single bit of their designated hallways at a leisurely pace. A faint smirk kept forming across his perfect features—perhaps due to the fact that he knew how much the wait was torturing Hermione.

Perhaps? No, Hermione was sure that her torture was the reason behind those annoying little smirks.

"It's almost time for our patrol to be over," Hermione stated, causing another one of Riddle's little smiles. The Head Boy checked his watch.

"Tut, tut, tut—two minutes left," he stated.

Hermione Granger suppressed a groan. She had never been a patient witch, at least not where her quest for knowledge was concerned—but she could not let her one nemesis know how much her own impatience was getting to her.

After all, that was precisely what Riddle wanted.

One minute passed, then two, and then the dark-headed wizard turned around followed by the witch, and they walked in circles around the empty corridor with the vanishing door, passing the blank walls exactly three times.

"Witches first," Riddle stated, gesturing towards the door which had appeared in front of them. Hermione was not charmed, but entered the door nonetheless.

The Room of Requirement looked exactly as she remembered it from the night before.

"You would almost expect the contents of this room to change and stir due to the lack of organization," Riddle said, almost as if he'd read her mind. "But I have been here enough times to believe that this is not the case. I've come to the conclusion that this place has been used as a place for students and Hogwarts personnel to hide away…  _inconvenient_  objects"—he glanced at a worn-down copy of a book titled  _Bertha's Illegal Love Spells_ , the legitimacy of which Hermione was skeptical of—"However I believe that this room hasn't been used for several centuries. Most of the things here can be dated back several hundred years."

"I wonder how old the pensieve is then. No memories are left in it," Hermione whispered almost to herself. Tom Riddle did not seem too eager to know the answer.

"The lack of memories is irrelevant, as we're not here to study the past," Tom said dismissively. Then, with an authoritative air that very much reminded Hermione of a professor,  "Now, Granger, what did I say last night about viewing memories?"

Before Hermione could stop herself, the eagerness to prove herself worthy took over her. "When a person looks at memories through a pensieve, they are physically transported into the memory itself, although in a state that makes the witch or wizard viewing the memory incapable of physically interacting with the memory. It is almost as if they were travelling to the past, with the pensieve acting like a portal of sorts—some wizards have speculated that pensieves themselves do not hold memories at all, but rather that memories serve as a kind of trigger through which the portal of a pensieve can be activated. Nicholas Flammel, for example, once wrote—"

"That is enough, this is not a class for you to show off in" Riddle stopped her, although he seemed strangely pleased. "Nicholas Flammel? You didn't tell me you'd gone to the library for further information today. Although I shouldn't be surprised…"

For some reason, Riddle's tone of approval resonated within Hermione's chest, not that she would ever let him know.

"So are we going to test this theory, then? Have we got a memory?" Hermione inquired, but then Riddle waved her off.

"Not necessary, witch. Flammel is exactly right. See those runes etched around the basin?"—Riddle gestured towards the pensieve lazily before continuing—"To the best of your ability, translate what they mean."

Hermione rolled her eyes.  _To the best of her ability?_  As if she did not know what she was doing. She looked the etchings on the basin thoughtfully. Some of them she did not recognize, but the others looked straightforward enough. "There are gates… then memory runes… I believe it's safe to assume that it's an incantation to activate the memories in the pensieve."

Riddle arched a brow cockily; he was not impressed. "Gates and memory runes, Granger? How old do you think this pensieve is?"

"I  _know_  pensieves must be pretty old magic, Riddle," Hermione immediately began, offended. "The oldest mention of them I could find in the library dated back to a reference to a paper written in the year 1,332 and even then it seemed like the author, Ibn al-Nafis, was speaking of an ancient artifact—"

"So you can read and retain information," Riddle cut her off. Hermione suppressed a sudden urge to yell at him, but he proceeded quickly. "But can you process the information you retain?  _Think_ , Granger. Do you not see the flaw in your translations? The pensieve as an artifact has existed for well over a millennia, yet you are using modern rune translations to interpret it. See those runes about the gates? Those might as well be runes for a portal. And the so-called memory runes you see there, those are invoking moments but they come with a warning. Now  _these_ runes, over here"—he added rapidly in the same breath—"the translation of these runes have been lost to time, but don't you see? All this time, wizards have been using pensieves as convenient little artifacts to store their memories, yet modern wizards do not really comprehend what they're for. You probably remember that incantations written in runes rely on the intent behind them more than an accurate translation. Using modern translations to interpret these runes, when they are so old, could only lead to mistakes. And who's to say we are underutilizing incredibly powerful magic due to sheer ignorance?" Riddle paused, dark eyes brighter than Hermione had ever seen them, and looked at her. There was a hint of excitement in his voice. "Do you see what this could mean, if we explored the possibilities further?"

Hermione stared at him, and a disturbing thought entered her head. The way Riddle was speaking reminded her a bit too much of herself when she discussed textbooks. It was fast and hurried, as if he had been waiting for a long time to get his thoughts out and be heard by someone else. Almost as if taking a leaf from Hermione's book, Riddle ignored her silence and continued, this time resuming his professorial air.

"Granger, do you know why only wizard memories work with the pensieve? Why don't muggle memories work as well?"

"Muggle memories lack the trace of magic," Hermione answered immediately, impulsively acting as if she were in class. "Not being magical beings, their memories cannot interact with the magic imprinted into the pensieve. As many other magical artifacts, a pensieve needs something with a magical aura to interact with, in this case a memory."

"Why a memory, instead of an object?" Riddle's eyes were still bright, there was a barely contained excitement in them.

"Most likely the pensieve works best interacting with organic magic instead of inorganic magic. As we learned last year in Charms—"

"List materials that can be used in organic magic to interact with objects," Tom cut her off again.

Hermione took this as a challenge, but she answered with ease. "Memories, of course, interact only with a pensieve, but there's also unicorn hair, which along with phoenix feathers are often used in wands… Mermaid tears, dragon scales, beetles—"

"Narrow it down to human materials, witch," Riddle said irritably, causing Hermione to roll her eyes again with exasperation, but she continued.

"Hair, nails, sometimes just skin cells, blood (although that's usually used in only the darkest magic)…"

"Why is human blood only used in dark magic?"

"Blood is often thought to contain the life force of a being. In human beings, it would mean taking the life force of a person, which is considered too close to murder for decent human beings"—Hermione looked pointedly at Riddle—"It's the same with unicorn blood; drink unicorn blood and you are cursed, because killing unicorns is abominable and so is taking the life force of such pure beings. You might not be exactly killing the person, but by taking their life force… It's too intimate, too risky…"

"Too powerful," Riddle added, but Hermione was not in the mood for one of their moral debates.

"Besides, blood magic is heavily controlled by the Ministry of Magic. I don't know why I'm even mentioning all of this to you. Surely, you know all this."

Tom Riddle paused and looked into Hermione's eyes with deep interest, causing the witch to blush. He was deep in thought, and it was almost as if he were debating something with himself. Feeling self-conscious, Hermione looked away but to her surprise Riddle grabbed her by the chin, redirecting her gaze back to his.

They stayed silent for a moment which Hermione estimated to have lasted hours, although it was probably only a few minutes. Hermione's face reddened, but she did not look away. Tom's eyes were so dark, she almost got lost in them. There was a calculating intelligence behind them that both fascinated and intimidated her at the same time. And he was so handsome… Hermione constantly had to remind herself that this was  _Tom Marvolo Riddle_ and not just some random boy. He was evil, infuriating…

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a small voice deep inside her insisted that he was a threat…

Hermione was about to fight her way out of Riddle's grasp when finally he spoke.

His voice was soft and hesitant. She might not have even registered it had she not seen his lips moving. "Granger, I don't know… Would it be wrong of me to trust you?" His expression deep in thought, it was almost as if he had been asking himself the question.

Something strange moved in her chest as Hermione tried to understand what the wizard in front of her was saying. When she found the words to reply, they came out sounding strange and far too nervous. "I… What? I gave you my word, didn't I?"

"It's one thing for you to know about this room and the pensieve," Tom whispered. His hand was still on her chin, forcing Hermione to keep her eyes on his. Their position would have felt very intimate had it not felt so frightening. "It's quite another for you to know my full plans… perhaps even my future…"

A scream caught on her throat when Tom moved his face even closer to hers. The delusional part of Hermione almost expected him to kiss her, but instead he stopped millimeters away from her body. Never mind how frightening it felt, this position was  _too intimate_. She could feel his breath on her lips as she struggled to find the will to move but it was almost as if she had been petrified. She heard the hint of a wicked smile on his lips as she heard him ask her, in a voice lower than a whisper,

"Hermione Granger, can I trust you?"

She paused. She couldn't  _breathe_. But this was  _Riddle_. This was  _Tom Riddle_.

' _Move away, Hermione, move away!'_  the small voice in her head shouted.

"Hermione…" Tom began, and to her horror it sounded more unlike a whisper and more—but was he moving closer towards her!?

He…! Was…! In… sane...!

' _MOVE AWAY!'_ she heard herself think again, and this time she did manage to move and pushed Riddle as far away from her as she could when she felt a soft flutter upon her lips.

' _WHAT THE—!?'_  she could hear herself think even as her bewildered eyes saw Riddle's humored expression. He wasn't only a sadist, he was a pervert to boot, and he…

Hermione's face went beet red as her mind replayed just what he had been about to do.

"What's wrong, Granger?" Riddle asked calmly, even as Hermione knew that he was secretly laughing at her expense.

Hermione didn't want to give him the satisfaction of answering him and chose to glare at him instead. That glare intensified when she heard Riddle's soft and composed chuckle.

' _Damn_ that man.'

"Anyhow,  _Hermione_ ," Riddle started again with a seemingly friendly smile and Hermione hated the way her name so casually escaped his lips. He once again moved closer towards him but this time Hermione stepped back as if Riddle had just transformed into a particularly threatening snake. "The question of your trustworthiness remains. What would you do with the information you discovered here if you did not find it to be… convenient…"

Hermione stared at him. "What?"

"Say, you found something unpleasant about… the pensieve… or myself, would you go to Headmaster Dippet?"

"What do you mean, something unpleasant?" Hermione asked him. "Like, something dangerous? Of course I would go to Headmaster Dippet!"

Tom Riddle's eyes narrowed dangerously and Hermione immediately knew she had given him the wrong answer. Something else clicked in Hermione's brain. She raised an eyebrow at Riddle disapprovingly.

"You knew we would find something dangerous?" Hermione began. She crossed her arms and preparing to give Riddle another stern talking to. She was suddenly less afraid as she reverted back into her roles of both Head Girl and Tom Riddle's conscience. "Tom Marvolo Riddle, what were you thinking? You knew we would be getting into something dangerous and you didn't even bother to  _tell me_  before you brought me into this mess? We could be expelled! Or get ourselves killed! Despite what you think, Tom Riddle, you are  _not_ the most infallible wizard alive and— _Jesus Bloody Christ_ "—the muggle-born in her exclaimed, forgetting all about wizard expressions—"We're still  _seventh_  years, for Christ's sake!  _God freaking dammit!_ Get that into your head already!"

Tom Riddle's eyebrow was raised further and further up during Hermione's tirade. He looked particularly bemused at the angry witch. When she was finally finished, he treasured the momentary silence before sternly asking, "Must you really let your mudblood heritage show with every word you speak?"

"ARGH! I'm going to Dippet," Hermione yelled in frustration and moved his back to him to to leave the  _Room of Frustration._ Before she managed it, Riddle's grip was firmly on his arm. "Jesus! Let go of me!" she yelled, but Riddle only pulled her closer to him. She was livid, but so was he.

"'Merlin! Let go of me!'," Hermione heard Riddle "correct" her in a mocking tone, further adding to her fury. She was about to give him a sarcastic retort before she noticed it.

The entire room, which had previously been dead silent, now rumbled with the echoes of moving objects.

Hermione briefly thought perhaps an earthquake was going on, but that would be ridiculous. To the best of her knowledge, Hogwarts hadn't been placed near a tectonic plate. The only reason why the Room of Requirement would be shaking would be due to magic, and that couldn't be possible because—

_Holy shit._

Hermione Granger froze in her spot. As her anger subsided, she too felt it—the oppressive feeling of powerful magic that was clouding the atmosphere as a dangerous threat.

And  _holy shit_ , it was coming off of  _Tom Marvolo Riddle_.


	4. Chapter 4

There was _no way_ all this magic was coming from Riddle.

_No way_ , and yet it was.

Hermione flinched. Riddle looked _pissed off_.

“I’m afraid I cann _ot_ let you go to the Headmaster, Hermione,” she heard him say over the rumble of the room. His tone was shockingly composed and civil; only a glint in his eyes betrayed the rage he expressed via magic.

_‘What the Hell,_ ’ Hermione thought before her mind travelled elsewhere. She _had_ to go to the Headmaster. Whatever was going on with the pensieve was a _big deal_ —she didn’t know why, but her instincts were rarely wrong where the wizard currently in front of her was concerned.

Slowly but surely, Hermione composed herself. She was a Gryffindor. She would do what needed to be done.

She drew out her wand.

“Petrificus—”

_B O O M!_

Something _exploded_ right next to her ear, but how? Riddle hadn’t brought out his wand—

Surprised, Hermione ducked almost a second too late. Shards of glass collided with her shoulder and, though she’d done her best to cover her face, she felt the sting of a nasty gash right under her left eye.

She had to make a run for it.

“Protego!” she shouted as she covered her back with a shielding charm and ran towards the door. It was no use—it was like an invisible rope had grabbed her by the waist and pulled her back towards Tom Riddle.

“Now, now, no need to hurry out so quickly—” she heard Tom’s patronizing voice, still terrifyingly calm. The little voice that resided in the back of Hermione’s mind told her that he was going to kill her—but surely the voice wasn’t being rational.

Was it?

She felt an adrenaline rush kick in as she tried to run towards the door again. Fear clouded her judgment. She felt a sick wetness trickling down her arm and she realized with horror that it was her blood—

The invisible rope pulled her again—

Riddle’s face was victorious—

And then the rope pulled too hard, and she collided against the pensieve.

She felt in an instant that something _else_ had gone terribly wrong. Tom Riddle’s face went pale as a ghost, and a sharp feeling of dread overcame her.

_The pensieve was glowing._

Hermione felt Riddle’s hand upon hers as he shouted her name.

The bright white glow of the pensieve blinded her.

 

***

 

September 13th, 1998—

It was a bright and leisurely Sunday morning for everyone but Hermione Granger as she sat by the great lake.

The new school year had begun less than two weeks ago and she was still readjusting herself to the world of academics rather than camping and fighting for her life.

The brown-haired witch sighed and read the paragraph in front of her for the third time since she’d sat down, trying to not pay attention to the noises surrounding her. The wind could explain the sound of rustling leaves and the laughter of several first years was definitely not the sound of mocking Death Eaters—

But she simply couldn’t adjust to it. She felt uneasy.

Five months ago, she had been fighting with Death Eaters to save her life. Five months ago, she had been hungry and desperate with Lord Voldemort in power and the life of her friends in danger.

The wizarding world had been at war far too recently. It felt bizarre to Hermione to go back to her studies.

“We need to finish our seventh year if we want a proper Hogwarts education,” she remembered telling Ron that summer. She and Harry planned to go back to Hogwarts, but Ron had not been too convinced.

“We’ve all been offered jobs at the Ministry already, Hermione. Besides, what difference does it make, we’ve defeated Voldemort! What more education do you need than that?” Ron had argued.

“A job at the Ministry is all the more reason to finish our seventh year at Hogwarts, especially if you’re going to be an Auror, Ron,” Hermione had countered. “You can’t seriously expect to fight dark wizards safely with a dropout education. Tell him, Harry—”

But Harry had stayed out of their argument, and in the end, only she and Harry had gone back to Hogwarts with Ron staying behind.

Hermione Granger sighed and rubbed her temples, her book forgotten. She knew that Ron wanted to start work right away so he could start saving for a family of their own, but she still felt wary. Not only were they going to have to continue their relationship long-distance, but he’d hardly had time to write during his Auror training. Hermione only hoped Ron was doing okay, wherever he was. His last letter had mentioned something about vampires, something Harry had been really excited about.

Harry was going to start his own Auror training as soon as he graduated from Hogwarts. Meanwhile, Hermione— She simply wasn’t that good at Defense Against the Dark Arts (and neither was Ron, for that matter, which worried the heck out of her!). Sure, Hermione had done okay during her fight against the Death Eaters, but still—

The memories haunted her. She hadn’t been meant for this.

Despite her supposed Gryffindor courage, Hermione felt like a coward.

Hermione willed herself to continue reading hoping that human Transfiguration eventually made sense. She couldn’t push the thought away that this lack of concentration was not normal in her. She felt constantly stressed all the time, and things she had been passionate about no longer held any meaning to her.

What was the purpose of all of this? She remembered George…

“Hermione?” Harry’s voice broke the witch out of her dark thoughts. He looked worried.

“Are you alright? You weren’t at the library,” the wizard who had defeated Voldemort explained as he sat down next to her, his green eyes focused on her. Hermione stared at him for a moment, contemplating how much more mature he looked now as compared to their first year at Hogwarts. She imagined she had grown up significantly since then too.

“Yes, I’m fine Harry,” Hermione said with a faint smile. “Just needed some fresh air is all.”

“How is Ron? Any news?” Harry asked even though he knew that most of Ron’s letters were addressed to him as well as Hermione.

“No news yet, but I’ve managed to piece enough information together to guess that they’re somewhere in Transylvania. Ron isn’t exactly careful about hiding the details.”

Harry smiled. He always got noticeably excited when the subject of Auror training came up. “Transylvania, eh? Wow, do you reckon we’ll get to go to Transylvania too when it’s time for our Auror training?”

“Err—” Hermione began.

“I know, I know, Hermione. We should focus on our N.E.W.T.s first. Though I must admit I’m a bit jealous of Ron. It took some guts to go against Mrs. Weasley and go straight to a job in the Ministry after McGonagall offered us a chance to come back to school.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Someday, he’s going to find out that a good education is worth more than a job at the Ministry. But until then, I’m glad you went back to school, Harry.”

Harry shrugged. “I like Hogwarts. I wouldn’t have missed a chance to come back one last time. This is the first place that ever felt like home to me. But I wouldn’t lie and say I’m not anxious to become an Auror…”

“That is understandable, seeing as how you’ve already proven you’re perfectly prepared for the job,” Hermione said proudly. Then she casually steered the conversation away from fighting Dark Wizards. “How are you doing in Transfiguration? We should be expected to learn human Transfiguration this year, and I know it’s not your strongest subject, I’m having trouble with it myself…”

“Yeah, we didn’t use too much Transfiguration when we were out camping last year did we,” conceded Harry. “Think we need some practice? I bet we could find plenty of stuff to practice on if we asked the Room of Requirement. We could ask Ginny to join us.” The youngest Weasley was in her seventh year along Hermione and Harry.

“That’s probably a good idea, but do you think the room survived the fiendfyre? We still don’t know…”

“Only one way to find out, isn’t there?” asked Harry with a smile. “C’mon, let’s find Ginny. I bet she could use some help on Transfiguration too.”

 

***

 

When Hermione came to, the blood was gone, and she felt the distinctively prickly feeling of skin mending itself. Whispers of foreign incantations circled the room in a hushed and strangely comforting manner.

She opened her eyes and tried to sit up, but a heavy pressure on her healthy shoulder overpowered her and forced her to keep still. Through blurry vision, she saw an incredibly handsome angel. His brows were furrowed in concentration and a vague hint of worry as he continued the incantations that Hermione finally recognized to be healing spells. Her mind was scrambled—what was she doing on the floor like this?

Was she dead?

It took her a few more moments before she  became aware of her surroundings and realized that the angel currently healing her was Tom Marvolo Riddle. The realization caused a sharp scream to escape her lips. Her eyes opened wide and, with a start, she jumped up, heart beating incredibly fast. _She remembered their fight leading up to this._

“Granger, stay still!” Riddle hissed. There was a commanding urgency in his tone, causing her to look down and see her exposed shoulder was still in mid-healing. She almost threw up when she saw that only a fine layer of film covered her shoulder blade. _What the fuck—_

“Some kind of jar—a potion—exploded right next to you during our time,” Riddle explained instantly upon seeing her shocked expression. He conveniently neglected to mention what exactly had caused the explosion, but Hermione remembered. It had been _him_ – _his magic_. “I’m not sure what the potion was—perhaps a failed experiment—but it’s clearly acidic and, if I don’t treat your wound, it’s going to continue corroding the flesh until only the bone is left.”

‘ _My_ flesh,’ Hermione’s mind edited the words. ‘ _My_ bone.’ She started to freak out.

 Irrationally, she moved to grab at her shoulder and try to wipe whatever it was that was corroding her away.

“STOP!” came Tom Riddle’s authoritative voice, so stern that Hermione felt paralyzed to her spot. It was almost like she had been petrified, but Riddle didn’t pay attention to her. He resumed the incantations at once, concentrating on them and nothing else.

Hermione looked around and finally noticed the black ashes surrounding them along with the pensieve covered in dark ash. Why did it look like the entire Room of Requirement had been on fire? Did this happen while she had been passed out?

She tried to voice her question but knew Riddle wouldn’t answer. It took him what seemed like an eternity to finish the work on her shoulder and then, as if by magic, she found she could move again.

“What is going on?” Hermione asked, although whether her question was to Riddle or herself she did not know.

“Some of your blood spilled on the pensieve and we arrived here,” Tom explained straightforwardly. It was almost as if he had been expecting this, but Hermione detected mild concern in his voice. “I have never actually tested this before but I suspect that this”—he gestured towards the room—“means my theory is correct and pensieves _can_ work as a portal with human blood as well as human memories. Now, if I’m not mistaken—and I rarely am—we should have arrived at some point in time during your lifetime.”

Hermione stared at him in disbelief, her mind devoid of rational thought. Tom continued. “This is rather unfortunate, as I was hoping we could use _my_ blood… but no matter. If we find you, we will probably be able to find me as well, so the end result is the same. Now the only question is: where in time are we? This must be somewhere in the future, judging from this mess…”

Hermione Granger gaped at him like a fish, opening and closing her mouth. Finally the words came out. “Now, hold on a second…” she began bossily. Her job as Tom Riddle’s Conscience and Voice of Reason was clearly far from over.

Riddle rolled his eyes as if he had been expecting her train of thought. “We won’t actually _talk_ to our past or future selves, messing with time,” Riddle began, although Hermione thought that he was quite suspiciously avoiding eye contact. “It’s not like we could mess with it. If using blood is at all like using memories, we won’t be able to be seen at all, so there is no risk of altering history. And besides, this is most likely the future, so whatever knowledge we gain from this trip has already been destined to have occurred.”

“Tom Riddle, you can’t _go_ to the future,” Hermione began, trying to argue some sense into the clearly delusional wizard in front of her. Did his narcissism know no bounds? “It states so right in _Laws of Timeturning_ —”

“Books can be wrong,” Riddle said simply, cutting her off. “We are _proving_ them wrong, right now. Open your eyes, Granger. We are living proof.”

Hermione felt a headache forming. She still had to go to Headmaster Dippet. It was clear to her that Riddle, in his fury, had burned this whole place down until only the pensieve remained, blackened with ash. This was _dangerous_. _He_ —she carefully eyed Riddle—was dangerous. She had to alarm Headmaster Dippet. The sheer destructive power that she had seen him generate—

“Now—how are you feeling? Are you alright?” she heard him ask casually, his hand carefully rested on her undamaged shoulder as he evaluated the healed one. There was a mild polite friendliness in his voice. She had heard him use this tone of voice before.

Hermione felt herself nod but her mind began to work at full speed as the fog caused by her fainting began to clear up. It was clear now to her that the calm, composed and charming Tom Riddle was more than just a shallow façade—It was an incredibly skillful and meticulous act, and even she never even suspected…

“You had me worried for a moment there when you decided to pull away so brashly. However, I managed—doesn’t hurt at all, does it?” he asked complacently. “Pretty decent healing job for a simple _seventh year_ , don’t you think?”

…the full extent of it. He was too clever, and too powerful. Even though he was clearly a skilled wizard, she’d had no idea of the extent of what he could truly do… Had he been purposely hiding it?

_He was not human._

“You won’t have to go to the infirmary, when we go back to our time,” there was a friendly smile on his lips. As if he really believed his nonsense.

_He was insane._

How was she going to get out of this?

“Riddle—” she began carefully, her head frantically working to find a way to get herself out of this mess. Should she pretend to have forgotten about what happened? Go along with his belief that they had travelled to the future? Hermione knew she had promised her silence, she had given her word—but she really had to alarm Professor Dippet, didn’t she?

Tom Riddle had almost _killed_ her.

“Tom—” Hermione tried again, her voice this time more soft and soothing. This seemed to have caught the wizard’s attention. His hand went back to her chin, lifting her head up so that her eyes met his. He only needed a fraction of a second.

“You don’t believe me, do you,” he sounded so convinced that Hermione felt stupid for not having figured it out sooner. Riddle knew Legimency.

She averted her gaze pretty much instantly.

However, the damage was done.

“Not really. How could I?” she admitted with a small voice. “But can you blame me? The burden of proof falls on you.

A small laugh left Riddle’s lips and he immediately moved closer to her as if to kiss her. Hermione pulled away immediately—she did not like this forced intimacy.

“Such a clever little mudblood,” Riddle commented completely ignoring her discomfort around him. “And so full of disbelief. Is it really that hard to trust me? I guess, like the disciple Thomas, you have to see to believe—that can be arranged. Now hold still.”

Hermione’s mouth hung open in a mixture of rage and disbelief as Riddle forcefully grabbed her chin again. She tried to move, to push him away, but then a forceful arm was on her back and she found her body moved closer to his against her will in what felt almost like an embrace. This was _not_ happening. This could _not_ be happening. Tom Riddle’s eyes were especially dark as he read through her brown ones looking for _something—_

But what could he possibly want? ‘ _No—don’t think!’_

Before Hermione could push all her thoughts safely out of her mind, the door to the Room of Requirement opened.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Apologies for the long wait. Here is the next chapter. Be aware that this is horribly unedited, so if you catch any mistakes please let me know! (Thanks!)

 

Chapter 5

 

When Hermione, Harry and Ginny finally arrived to the Room of Requirement, Hermione had half-expected the fiendfyre to have destroyed it. It had been logical to assume so.

It had _not_ been logical to expect to find _herself_ in the embrace of _Lord Voldemort_ , but her eyes said something different.

“What in Merlin’s name…” Hermione began. The surreal scene in front of her transformed as a startled-looking mirror-Hermione and an impossible to read Tom Riddle turned their attention to the real Hermione and her group. Harry and Ginny took out their wands instinctively—the young version of Lord Voldemort did the same—

“CLOSE THE DOOR!!” Hermione shrieked. Harry complied in a heartbeat.

_B A M ! ! !_

This was entirely unexpected. Hermione, Harry and Ginny stared at each other in shock.

Voldemort was back. But what could be done?

“We _have_ to warn McGonagall,” said Hermione with conviction.

_* * *_

Inside the Room of Requirement, the Other Hermione—the _real_ Hermione?—stared at the closed door in shock.

_What had just happened?_

She opened and closed her mouth a few times, unsure of where to begin to ask what was going on. Who were those people? And was that... _Her?_ But how—?

She motioned to look at the boy who had been previously on top of her but that boy had vanished.

Riddle was striding towards the Room’s door with an air of urgency and determination.

He opened the door—

* * *

—and then the door opened, and Hermione and Ginny shrieked. Voldemort was out!

He grabbed Hermione by her robes—

Harry pointed his wand—

But Tom Riddle was faster: “Accio!”—

They felt a strong pull as Harry and Ginny were thrown into the Room of Requirement by Riddle’s magic as Hermione simultaneously was pulled in by her robes.

“Impedimenta.”

Then everything faded to black.

* * *

The Room of Requirement Hermione couldn’t help but stare at the three individuals now currently lying unconscious on the floor thanks to Riddle’s spell.

Two of them she didn’t recognize—the redhead and the dark haired boy looked like no other students at Hogwarts despite their school robes. They looked about her age too—if they had been in school, she would have seen them.

The third unconscious person looked too familiar.

Hermione saw that Riddle was staring at her too—this _doppelganger_ version of herself. She and her looked exactly alike.

Hermione wasn’t sure exactly what Riddle did, but she was sure it wasn’t time travel. Surely, Tom Riddle would at least now admit that—

“I am assuming we didn’t travel too far into the future then,” Tom Riddle declared.

Hermione balked. “ _Excuse_ me?”

Riddle stared at her as if she were particularly slow, pointing at her unconscious doppelganger. “You haven’t exactly changed much, have you?”

“I— _What_? That isn’t _me_!”

A roll of his eyes. “That looks enough like you, doesn’t it?”

“Well, yes—” Hermione admitted. “But the other two I haven’t exactly seen around Hogwarts.”

Tom Riddle raised a brow, moving to study the other Hermione. “I suppose you could have aged extraordinarily well...”

Hermione scoffed.

“ _Or_ this could be a descendant of yours,” Riddle conceded with a tone of mild amazement in his voice. “I suppose that might be another possibility. After all, I’ve been told that I look exactly like my father.”

There was a slight pause of silence as Hermione was distracted by what was just said. Tom noticed this and raised an eyebrow. “What?” he asked. His tone of voice was slightly defensive.

“Nothing,” Hermione said quietly. “It’s just that I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about your father.”

There was an awkward silence, and Hermione blushed. She already knew that Riddle was an orphan, but she had never considered that it might be a delicate subject for him. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to intrude… I understand if you don’t want to talk about it.”

To her surprise, Tom Riddle rolled his eyes. “I am way beyond caring about my dead parents. You understand that I’m a wizard, right—not Little Orphan Annie.”

Hermione surprised herself when she snorted, then started to laugh. Who would have known that Tom Riddle could be _funny_? It was entirely unexpected. She was indeed in a bizarre situation.

She saw Tom studying her quietly as she stopped laughing. “I didn’t know you followed Muggle comic strips,” she beamed momentarily forgetting herself.

Riddle ignored her comment and instead took his attention back to the motionless people in the room with them. “So, as I was saying… This could be either you or a descendant of yours, since clearly it can’t be an ancestor”—he looked at her pointedly, obviously once again referring to Hermione’s Muggleborn status. She rolled her eyes and he continued, “There is only one way to find out, I suppose. Have you got your wand?”

 “What?” Hermione asked rather dumbly. She had not been expecting that seemingly random question.

It was Riddle’s turn to roll her eyes at _her_. “Nevermind, I will do it. Just don’t interfere, or I will have to Jinx you.” Then he pointed his wand at the doppelganger and said, “Ennervate.”

It was like a bucket of cold water had been splashed all over “doppelganger” Hermione’s body. She sat up in an instant, looking wildly at her surroundings. _Lord Voldemort was here. Lord Voldemort was—_

She screamed.

_Standing three feet away from her Merlin what is going on!!!_

A nonverbal Expelliarmus grabbed her wand and two others before she had a chance to react. Clearly, Voldemort’s doing. She looked around her and was relieved to find Harry and Ginny’s bodies still intact, although it wasn’t clear if they were still alive. “What have you done to them, you—”

“Are you Hermione Jean Granger?” Voldemort interrupted her with a familiarity that threw her off. _What_? She glanced at the clone version of herself that was with Voldemort. This had to be an illusion of some sort. Then she remembered—

Lord Voldemort was dead.

They had destroyed all his horcruxes.

So what was _this_?

Hermione got up to her full height, eyeing the two apparitions suspiciously. A Boggart? No… Was this a problem within the Room of Requirement?

“Yes, this is she,” she said finally with all the bravery she could muster. This could _not_ be Lord Voldemort. Voldemort was dead. And that could _not_ be there with him. Could this be the result of a broken spell, or maybe the aftereffects of the destruction of the Diadem horcrux…?

“The Mudblood?” Riddle continued with his interview. Both Hermiones glared at him.

“Is that really necessary?” the Hermione that had come with Riddle said reproachfully.

The Hermione that came from outside the Room of Requirement scrutinized the two of them, confused by their familiarity.

“My parents are both Muggles, yes,” she admitted. Where was this—whatever it was—going with this? “Are Harry and Ginny okay?” she asked tentatively, though unsure if it would be beneficial to do so.

“Who?” she heard the other version of herself ask. Tom Riddle— _Voldemort_ —ignored them both.

“Why are you acting as if we’ve never spoken?” he asked. There was a kind of frustration in his voice that surprised both Hermiones. _Both Hermiones_. Merlin—this was confusing.

“We’ve never really spoken, have we?” the Hermione being interrogated started, but then her face went pale and there was a sudden _terror_ in her eyes as she remembered something. “Unless you count the Locket… and the Cup,” she whispered.

“The _what_?” the other Hermione asked, more than a little frustrated. Riddle ignored her again, all his attention now on the new Hermione.

“What year is it?” Riddle whispered softly, getting uncomfortably close to the new Hermione. She took a step back before she noticed his wand was still pointing at her. The way he was looking at her sent shivers down her spine.

“It’s 1998,” Hermione stuttered, panicking. None of this made any sense. “Where are you going with this? What _are_ you? What’s the meaning of _her_?”—she pointed at the other Hermione—“The real you is _dead_. There _are_ no more horcruxes!”

“There are no more _what_!?” Tom heard the other Hermione yell in disbelief, but it was as if she was yelling at him from another world. What this version of Granger was saying could not be true. The real him was _dead_? There were _no more horcruxes_?

His grip tightened around his wand as he felt uncontrolled fury engulf him and all he wanted to do was _Crucio_ this _imposter_ of a witch in front of him until she told him _how and why_ his horcruxes were gone and _how_ she knew and _why she did not do anything to stop it and—_

_—and he heard the walls tremble and a woman screaming—_

Suddenly there was the other Granger in front of him. The one he had brought. Or rather, the one who had brought him here. Her eyes met his and there again was the righteous bravery she confronted him with whenever she felt that he misbehaved.

“Tom,” he heard her speak with more confidence than what he knew she felt, her voice calm and strangely soothing despite the barely audible tremble in it. “Tom, drop your wand and control your magic. You’re terrifying my doppelganger.”

And so he was. The new Hermione—the _real_ Hermione, she kept telling herself—could _not_ cope with this. She had done her time fighting Voldemort. He was supposed to be _dead_ — _dead dead DEAD—_ and this was _not_ happening and she _needed_ to get Harry and Ginny out before he did something to them but she could _not feel her legs_ and there was this _intense magic emanating from him_ and _asphyxiating_ her and suddenly she was transported to the battle at Hogwarts and there were _so many Death Eaters_ and _so many dying_ and suddenly she was shaking—

Hermione Granger did not drop her gaze, but Tom did. At once he felt the oppressive magic in the room—his own. He mentally reprimanded himself. Once again he had ceased to be calm and collected—due to a Granger, _again_. He stared at the other Hermione on the floor next to—her friends? Did Hermione even _have_ any friends?

“Good,” he heard Hermione say, and it was almost comical how she so clearly struggled to voice her approval of him. “Good. Now, let’s forget about the horcruxes for now.” Her tone was as bossy as he had ever heard it and it was clear she was struggling to become emotionally detached from their current situation. “And let’s make sense of this. I mean, obviously this isn’t 1998. And that isn’t me,” she continued, motioning towards the other Hermione who was now at the floor by the dark-haired boy and the redhead girl and having her own moment of panic. “So whatever this is, it’s not real. So let’s calm down, okay? Let’s think for a moment.”

He took a deep breath and focused on her. Riddle’s lips twitched and there was a hint of affection on his voice even as he chided her. “It was always difficult for you to believe in real magic.”

She gave out an exasperated sigh. “Must you do this, really? _Now_? _We are inside a pensieve—_ or whatever this is.”

“‘Whatever it is this,’ indeed,” Riddle conceded before turning his attention back to the other three. He did not think it wise to return any of their wands. They looked positively imbalanced, and seemed to have a vendetta against him.

Worst of all, they seemed to _know_ him, and they seemed to know about his horcruxes—despite the fact that he currently only had one. How did they know he planned on acquiring several? Could the claims that they had all been destroyed be true?

Was he really, in this world, dead?

“Granger,” he spoke harshly, and the one on the floor shrieked while the other one looked up. They were _so different_.

“What,” his version of Hermione said impatiently.

 “There are studies that claim that ancient Sumerian wizards believed dreams were a link to other universes,” he stated quietly.

“Are you kidding me,” Hermione began. She was thoroughly unamused. This was no time for a history lesson.

He ignored her and continued. “In ancient runes, the symbols for dreams and for memories are strangely similar. I forget the name of the scholar—you probably remember useless things like these—but one theory states that this is because, in ancient times, dreams and memories were thought to hold the same kind of magic.”

“Athena Evermonde,” Hermione informed him with a roll of her eyes. “And that theory was disproved when Cassius the Blind attempted to use dreams in organic magic and failed.”

Riddle smirked. “We’ve been over this. The fact that you are so pedantic accounts for about half the reasons why I am a better wizard than you are a witch. Just because a theory was disproved in _one_ area doesn’t mean it should be disregarded when it comes to all branches of magic.”

Hermione gave out an irritated groan. She wanted to strangle him. She began to consider how successful she would be if she attempted to do so.

“Anyway,” Riddle continued casually, shrugging off the way her eyes were shooting daggers at him. “Considering how different _this_ Hermione is to you, I would think that it’s safe to say we are in some sort of alternate universe,”—his face darkened—“a universe in which I seem to be dead.”

Hermione paled. She refused to even consider it. “Who would kill a seventeen year-old student?”

“Grindelwald, for one,” Riddle suggested, although he was positively sure that was not the case.

Hermione shook her head frantically. “You don’t know this. We’re not even sure of where we are. I think we should ask my doppelganger,” she began, though unsure—none of the trio seemed like they would be particularly responsive. Two of them were unconscious, and the doppelganger version of herself seemed like she had gone into a catatonic state of shock. She herself was uncertain if she and Tom should be speaking to them. They didn’t know the rules, or if there were boundaries…

“I would rather do that on my own,” Riddle began, but Hermione immediately cut her off.

“ _No way_ , it’s obvious she hates you,” she didn’t think it would be necessary to explain this. “ _I_ will talk to _me_. You go make sure the pensieve’s intact. _No eavesdropping._ And give me their wands,” she held out a hand expectantly while keeping the other one firmly resting on her hip.

The fact that she was treating him like she did other misbehaving students did not amuse Riddle in the least. “Do you really think it wise to give their wands back to them? We don’t know anything about them.”

“Do you really think they would tell us anything about this place if they felt threatened?” she countered. Tom Riddle as about to disagree and offer previous experience as proof, but thought better of it.

“I will give them up if they ask. Does that sound fair?” She was about to protest, so he continued, “I’m only concerned about our safety.”

“Fine,” she conceded. “Now shoo,” and with a wave of her wand she constructed a stone wall between Riddle and herself.

Riddle rolled his eyes. Show-off witch.

* * *

The war was over and Voldemort had won.

That was the only way that Hermione could explain it. Otherwise, why was he _here_ —how had he returned? It was clear now that the Order were never meant to win the war.

As she lay there next to Harry and Ginny, she felt she was rather prepared for death. There was nothing she could do, after all—the horcrux inside the Locket was right, she really was a coward. Really was useless. Really was incapable of fighting in any way that did not require a book.

And she was _so tired_ of fighting.

Suddenly, she felt a hand on her shoulders and heard her own voice trying to comfort her.

“It’s okay, he’s calmed down now,” she heard herself say in a soothing voice. “Riddle can be the absolute worst, but I’ve never let him do anything foul on my watch,” she assured herself.

Hermione looked up and saw herself.

“What _are_ you?” there was still a hint of curiosity in her, even as she got ready for death. “Why are you _with_ him? Is this part of the horcrux, or...”

“I don’t know anything about horcruxes,” the other Hermione began. “Frankly, I don’t think it would be possible for them to exist anymore. The mere mention of them has been banned from books since the middle ages, at least in my—ugh, I sound ridiculous saying this—in _my_ version of the world,” Hermione rolled her eyes while her doppelganger looked at her in confusion. 

“Riddle thinks that this world that you live in is a different world than ours,” she shrugged. “Is that true? Have you really never met him?”

Suddenly, the doppelganger Hermione got suspicious. “What are your parents’ names?”

The “other” Hermione raised a brow. “Now if I tell you, you will know. Then what proof will I have that you’re me?”

“You could tell me my siblings’ names,” Hermione bluffed.

“Siblings?? I _have_ no siblings.”

“Fine, tell me mom’s name and I’ll tell you dad’s.”

“Mom’s name is Monica.”

“Dad’s name is Wendell,” said the doppelganger in surprise. “Though everyone calls him—”

“Wen!!!” finished the “other” Hermione. “Oh my god—You really _are_ me! But that’s impossible!”

“There is no record of this even being possible,” the doppelganger agreed with the same level of surprise. “I mean, there are Muggle theories about multiple universes, but they sound so farfetched!”

“There are Muggle theories about this?” the “other” Hermione repeated, confused. “I’d never heard of them.”

“Oh, you would _love_ them,” the doppelganger Hermione exclaimed. “Daddy enrolled me in summer camp the summer before the war started and we studied a bit of physics there. They didn’t get too in-depth, since we were 13, but they did cover the basic idea of multiverses and string theory and it was absolutely fascinating, but of course it doesn’t explain magic.”

The other Hermione frowned. “So there’s a war going on over here too,” she sighed. “But didn’t you say it’s 1998? How did Grindelwald manage to live this long?”

The doppelganger’s eyes went wide. “There war is over, but it wasn’t Grindelwald. He died a few months ago. Voldemort killed him.”

The other Hermione’s blood ran cold. “Who—what?”

_Voldemort._

_Riddle._

Suddenly, she heard an “Impedimenta”.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Truly, every time I start writing things again my computer goes on strike. I wrote most of this from my cellphone.

Nobody ever suspected how different, how painstakingly different, Hermione became after the war.

Ron, bless him, had even praised her for her constancy, telling her how happy he was that—as much as things were different—at least _she_ had remained the same. Of course, Ron hadn’t returned to Hogwarts with them. He hadn’t seen her lack of enthusiasm while reading; how her academic excellence had started to come from a sense of duty rather than her characteristic passion for learning. Harry had been the only one who’d noticed how little she seemed to care anymore, had even tried to reassure her by telling her that Hogwarts felt different for him too. But he didn’t really understand her, didn’t see the dread that she’d come to feel during each lesson. Didn’t see how much she had grown to procrastinate, how she hated learning magic now because every spell she learned was a spell she hadn’t known, a spell she could have used to save somebody—a spell she hadn’t been able to use to help.

Hermione Granger felt like such a failure.

Perhaps worse, Hermione Granger had grown incredibly paranoid. She had started to avoid crowded spaces, unknown people, new environments. She found that neither she nor Harry ever ate at the Great Hall anymore unless the place was almost empty. She was brilliant, of course—she had a nagging suspicion that she knew what was going on in her and Harry’s heads—but she wanted so badly for things to go back to normal, she refused to think about it.

Hermione Granger did not, could not, have PTSD. She couldn’t afford to.

Yet so many things came back to her the moment she heard Tom Riddle’s spell in the Room of Requirement—so many dreadful things—and she couldn’t help but scream and stiffle a sob and shake even as she ducked, even as she stole the wand from her other self’s pocket, and it took her an immense effort to shout a spell back instead of cry. But she did.

Her spell almost hit Riddle square in the face, but he blocked it.

Hermione had anticipated that.

She pushed her other self out of the way—classmate of his or not, she was a Muggleborn—then unleashed curse after curse after curse, each one darker and more vicious than the next, some of which she might have never tried had Harry been awake, and of course he blocked them expertly with a steady hand and complex wand movements, even as he seemed somewhat surprised—but then it finally happened and she managed to throw him a curse he hadn’t known, couldn’t have known, because it had been invented in 1977.

“Sectusempra,” Hermione thought as she lashed her wand in slicing motions, and even she was surprised by her own viciousness, worried about what Harry might think of her if he knew she had thrown that curse.

Tom Riddle’s eyes widened in surprise and he moved away just in time, Hermione’s curse slicing open the distant wall behind him a moment later. Hermione saw with some satisfaction how frightened he looked for a moment before he put back his mask and pointed his wand at her and he—

“STOP!!! Don’t hurt him!”

It was Hermione’s voice but it was not her voice. Hermione looked in astonishment as her body double ran and stood in between herself and Voldemort, arms extended, eyes determined and firm. It was clear she disapproved of her use of dark curses. Clearly. Hermione briefly thought she couldn’t blame herself, but to protect _Voldemort_ —

Well, she’d once done the same for Malfoy, hadn’t she?

“I’m sorry,” Hermione said even though she was unsure that she truly was. She felt numb. Disappointed that Voldemort was still alive. Frightened that she felt that way. “It’s just… He’s evil, you know? He hates us. Hates _you_ for being Muggleborn. Did you know that?”

“I am aware that Riddle is a prejudiced prat, yes,” the other Hermione said, looking back to glare at Riddle. He simply shrugged at her. “But dark curses are seriously dangerous. They are _banned_ at the school, Miss”—she hesitated—“Granger. If he hadn’t dodged it, you could have killed him!”

“He’s tried to kill us,” Hermione said bitterly.

The other Hermione’s eyebrows raised, shocked and confused and—she turned to Riddle again. “ _Really_. Why?”

Tom Riddle didn’t have to be a Legimens to hear the hurt in her voice. “I would never try to kill you, Granger,” he spoke quietly.

“He has,” Hermione insisted. There was hatred in her voice. “Multiple times. Mainly Harry, but he almost killed Ginny when he reopened the Chamber of Secrets, and his damn horcrux made me want to kill myself every night. I still have nightmares about it.”

“I don’t even know what she’s talking about,” Riddle said. “My _horcrux_? How and why would I have a horcrux? I’m _seventeen_ , for Merlin’s sake. Clearly, Granger, this other version of you—“

Hermione wasn’t listening to him. “The Chamber of Secrets?” she said quietly. There was disappointment in her voice. She turned to him again. “That was you?”

“He’s the Heir of Slytherin,” the other Hermione said bitterly, rolling her eyes.

Hermione took a deep breath. “We should talk about this later, Tom.”

She sounded entirely disappointed.

“So what now?” the Hermione from this world asked, hand on her hip. Tom Riddle raised his eyebrows. He certainly recognized this bossy tone. “Can you let my friends go now? Also, clearly you don’t belong here. Will you be returning to your world soon or will I have to notify the Headmistress? Can you even return? How did you get here? You know, _Lord Voldemort_ here is kind of persona non grata, so if you’re planning on staying I must warn you that I will have to notify the authorities.”

The Hermione from Riddle’s world started to play with her hair anxiously. Really, it was getting hard to tell them apart. He did notice that his world’s Hermione seemed to be sleeping better than the other one, if the darkness under her eyes were anything to go by. But it was beginning to get frustrating having to think of them both as Hermione.

“I have no clue how we got here,” Riddle’s Hermione admitted, still fussing with her hair. It was getting noticeably fluffier. “Honestly, I don’t understand much about the magic behind the Pensieve. Riddle and I were just starting to investigate it. Although, Tom—maybe you know more about it than you’ve let on.”

“I thought I might have found a reliable method of time travel,” Riddle admitted. “Not _this_ , certainly—whatever this is. Although I assure you, Granger, we have no intent on staying.”

“Granger-Weasley,” the Hermione from this world said.

The other Hermione stared at her in disbelief. The way Riddle stared at her was indecipherable.

She blushed. “Erm—not yet. Although we _are_ engaged. I just figured it might be easier to refer to me as Hermione Granger-Weasley so as to avoid confusion.”

There was a moment of silence, broken by Riddle when he quietly asked with disgust and disbelief, “You’re marrying _Augustus Weasley_?” Augustus Weasley was a particularly pimply, visibly sweaty, redheaded fourth year Gryffindor Hermione had helped tutor more than once.

“Erm—No,” Hermione Granger-Weasley said bluntly. “Heavens, no. I’m marrying Ron—Ron Weasley. Augustus Weasley is his great-uncle, though, I believe. He never married.”

Hermione Granger let out the breath she didn’t notice she had been holding. Really, if her fate had been to marry Augustus—he was a nice enough fellow, but she really would have rather remained alone.

Riddle moved towards them, and with a flick of his wand Hermione Granger’s wand was back in her hands. Hermione Granger-Weasley gasped. “Oh, shush, Granger- _Weasley_. I’m giving you your wand back. Here.”

Harry’s, Ginny’s and her own wand were returned to Hermione’s astonishment. Just like that? What did he want?

“What about first names?” Hermione Granger blurted out.

Riddle and Granger-Weasley looked at her. “What?”

“I don’t like being called _Granger_ all the time,” Hermione said as if this were obvious. “We’ve already established last name differences between me and Granger-Weasley. Shouldn’t we establish first name differences as well?”

“Well, I’ve always been called Hermione,” Hermione Granger-Weasley said.

“Me too. But I guess I wouldn’t mind it if my middle name was also used. So you can call me—”

“Hermione Jean,” Riddle completed her sentence, smiling mischievously. “Nice to meet you.”

“You can stick to calling me Granger,” Hermione Jean said coldly.

“I much prefer it when we are on a first name basis, actually, Hermione Jean.”

“This can’t be happening,” Hermione Granger-Weasley groaned, hands on her face.

 

When Ginny awoke, it took her a very long time to convince herself she wasn’t dreaming.

Tom Riddle was here, looking handsome as ever, as he always did in her nightmares. But Harry was here, too—as were _two_ Hermiones—and none of them were screaming in terror, and none of them were dead.

“So I call _you_ Hermione Jean,” she heard Harry say, pointing at one of the Hermiones and looking very confused, “and, Hermione, I call _you_ Hermione? And Hermione Jean is from Voldemort’s time, and she is his _friend_?”

“Classmates,” Hermione Jean quickly corrected.

“Partners,” Riddle re-corrected. Hermione Jean looked aggravated. Hermione looked sick. Harry’s face hardened. “In the non-romantic sense,” Riddle explained. “Although she’s clearly attracted to me.”

Hermione Jean scoffed. “I am _what!?_ ”

“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” Riddle said, waving a hand dismissively.

Hermione Jean turned beet red. “I _have_ to look at you, you self-centered git! You would have vanished a first year by now if it wasn’t for me!”

“I only threatened to do that once and it was a Hufflepuff,” Riddle said rolling his eyes, then looked at Harry and Hermione conspiratorially. “Hufflepuffs, am I right?”

“What _is_ this,” Ginny croaked, sitting up once she’d decided that this situation was too bizarre to be a nightmare.

“Ginny! You’re awake!” Harry was over her immediately and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She heard Hermione explain to Hermione Jean and _Voldemort_ (!?!) that Ginny and Harry were dating.

This entire situation was too bizarre.

“So here is what we know,” Hermione Granger-Weasley said. “Hermione Jean and Vol—and _Riddle_ , came here through the Pensieve from some sort of universe in which Tom Riddle and I went to school.”

“What a sick universe,” Harry interjected.

“ _Excuse_ me?” Riddle said.

“Agreed,” said Hermione Granger-Weasley, causing Riddle to look at Hermione Jean as if asking her to defend him. “Anyway, Riddle is still the same—on his merry way to becoming Dark Lord supreme—and I am still the same, from what we can tell.  We need to send them back to their own universe, obviously, but the Pensieve here is without potion due to the Fiendfyre.”

Hermione paused here, unnerved by her own allusion to Crabbe’s death. Harry understood.

“We just need access to the library, really,” Riddle began.

Hermione Jean interjected. “We will do no such thing. It’s bad enough that three people have seen us. We don’t know what could happen to this universe if we begin to interact with it.”

“People might grow a bit suspicious if they meet a Hermione who doesn’t know anybody, yeah,” Harry agreed.

“But what are we going to do about _Voldemort?_ ” Ginny asked loudly. She could not believe how calmly everyone was considering this situation.

Hermione sighed. “He swears that he hasn’t made a single horcrux and doesn’t know what we’re talking about when we mention all the horrible things he’s done. We all know that’s a load of bull, but since he’s so determined in swearing innocence and Hermione Jean is here to be witness, I really don’t think he would do anything. Besides, Hermione Jean swears she has experience in keeping him in line.”

“I find it hard to believe you all think I can’t hear you talking about me,” Riddle stated.

“When I met Riddle in the Chamber, he didn’t quite act like this,” Harry said thoroughly ignoring Riddle. “It’s weird. I think living with Hermione Jean’s influence might have altered him, somehow.”

“Well, when I wrote to him in the diary, he was precisely like this,” Ginny said, looking at Riddle coldly. “Charming. Funny. Of course he wants to seem harmless, that’s what makes him most dangerous.”

Tom Riddle raised an eyebrow, looking shocked but completely innocent. Hermione Jean considered him.

“Don’t worry,” she told Ginny. “I know he’s dangerous.”


End file.
